


Rose Gold

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dates, F/M, Fluff, Hair Dye, Humour, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, accidental hair dye, confessions-ish, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Brienne gently unwraps the towel from Jaime's head, holding her breath. His hair falls down; wet, long, and… pink. Jaime groans.Jaime convinces Brienne to let him borrow her bathtub, as his apartment is sorely lacking. It's a great idea: until he accidentally uses Arya's conditioner and manages to dye his hair pink. Lannisters donothave pink hair.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 36
Kudos: 235





	Rose Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so it's been like... a year? Longer? Since I've written anything with these two. But this has been sitting in my drafts for all that time, making me feel bad, so I figured I'd finally finish it and post it. Enjoy!

Brienne paces the length of her living room, her phone sandwiched between her shoulder and her ear. On the other end of the line, Jaime is pleading with her. 

“Come on, Brienne, please! Look, I like staying at Tyrion’s place but I'm still aching from the other night and I'm sick of his tiny shower. You're the only person I know in the north with a bathtub!" 

“I’m the only person you know in the north, full stop.” 

“Come on, _please_!” 

She sighs. If she's being honest, she doesn't really mind having him over. It'll be nice to see him again, and Sansa and Arya won't be home till some horrendously early hour in the morning, so they'll have the house to themselves. It means they can binge Netflix on the huge flat screen TV in the living room, not relegated to the laptop in her bedroom like a pair of _teenagers._

“Okay, fine! Fine. But you _owe_ me, Lannister,” she says, maintaining the charade that he's a huge inconvenience to her. She _wants_ him to come over; but she's not going to admit that to him. 

“What, you want two dragons for the water bill?” 

“Just buy me dinner or something, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah. So when can I come over? Now?” 

Brienne sighs and rolls her eyes as she looks around the messy living room, calculating how long it will take her to tidy it. 

“I can hear you rolling your eyes at me, wench!” 

“You can hear no such thing!” She splutters down the phone, embarrassed. She takes in the mess then leans through the doorway to the kitchen and mentally notes that it _also_ needs a clean. “Come over at four thirty? That gives me time to get the house in order." 

"Got it, four thirty. And I owe you dinner?" 

Brienne shifts the phone to her other shoulder as she stoops down to hoist a pile of books that have been discarded on the coffee table into her arms. "Yeah, sure," she says, distracted, "sounds good." 

"Right, I'll see you then." 

"See you later." 

With a complicated wiggle, she grabs the phone out from under her ear, hangs up the call and drops it onto the pile of books. She glances around the room. Time to tidy, then. 

She's putting the final pieces of dirty washing into the dishwasher when her phone buzzes with a message. 

" _Here_.” 

Apparently knocking on doors or ringing doorbells isn't something they _do_ in King's Landing. She slams the machine shut with her hip and wanders to the front door. She pulls it open and finds him standing on the driveway, phone in one hand, examining the grey vespa outside the house. 

“Whose is the bike?” He says as he meanders up the garden path, “You’re not becoming a biker chick, are you? I’ve always thought you’d look good in leather.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes at him, trying to ignore the comment, thankful for the darkness obscuring her reddening cheeks. “It’s Arya’s,” she says, simply, “She’s staying with us for a bit – so if you see her, _be nice_.” 

“I’m _always_ nice.” 

“Sure.” 

“Why’s she staying with you? Last I heard she was shacked up with that Baratheon kid.” 

“She dumped him.” 

“Ohh, do tell.” 

She sighs. “He proposed, apparently. And she said no.” 

Jaime winces. “Ouch. Poor kid.” 

“Ouch indeed. Anyway, come in, you’re making the garden look messy.” 

He saunters past her, and as he steps into the yellow light of the hallway, she can see what he's wearing. He's dressed well - far too well for someone just popping over to borrow her bathtub. He's acclimatized quickly to being up north, she thinks, exchanging linen for a lot of denim and wool and leather. Today is a dark grey shirt and the red leather jacket he'd picked up at the vintage market she'd dragged him to last month with a pair of jeans that probably cost more than her TV. He bends to take off his shoes, and she notices he's wearing the doc martens she convinced him to buy after he'd started complaining that his feet were cold all the time. 

He's infuriating - he always looks so _effortlessly_ good, like the clothes have just _fallen_ onto him. It's something, she supposes, to do with his figure, the curve of his back, the slopes of his broad shoulders. He's a designer's _dream_ , all perfect angles and height. She's used to hanging around beautiful people – first Margaery, now Sansa – but somehow it's different with him. 

“You’re dressed smartly for someone who’s here for a bath.” She says, probing. 

“Well,” He replies, flashing her a grin, “I’ve got a hot date afterwards.” 

It's like a little punch to the gut, one that she wasn't expecting. 

“Oh…” she manages, trying to hide her disappointment. She's not even sure _why_ she's disappointed. She swallows, trying to regain a little composure. "Well…come on up, then." 

He trails her up the stairs, and she’s hotly aware of him following behind her, of how close he is. She leads him into her room, and it’s not until he’s gently shutting the door behind himself that she’s realised what she’s done - that she’s led him straight to her bed. It feels _different_ now, somehow: even though they’ve shared spaces more intimate than this a hundred times over. 

She turns, twisting her hands together, as he pulls off his jacket and flings it onto her bed. 

“You want the door right next to mine,” she says, fiddling with a hangnail, “There’s towels in the blue hamper, take any you want, they’re all clean. And the bath stuff, soap, shampoo… I assume you can figure that out yourself?” 

He grins. “I’ll try to manage. Thanks, Brienne.” 

A sudden thought strikes her as he turns to leave. 

"Hold on," she says, "Do you need help?" 

"I think I can _bathe_ myself, Brienne." 

"I _mean_ ," she continues, "the shirt. The buttons. Do you need a…" 

"Do I need a hand?" He raises his eyebrows at her. 

"You _know_ what I mean." 

He stands back, looking _incredibly_ smug, then grabs his collar with his good hand and tugs. In a swift, fluid motion the shirt flies open to reveal his bare chest, the buttons snapping apart. Brienne can feel herself starting to blush; he's still maddeningly sculpted, still apparently perfect; the only difference is now he's sporting more scars than the last time she saw him shirtless. 

"The buttons are magnets!" He announces, looking very proud of himself. 

"I can… see that." 

She swallows. This is stupid. She _knows_ Jaime, she's seen him shirtless countless times. She's seen him _naked_ , for fuck's sake. And – oh, gods – now she's thinking about him naked. 

"Where did you get it?" She asks, deliberately maintaining eye contact and hoping her feigned interest will distract her from her train of thought. 

"Tyrion found it," He says, tugging the shirt off, completely oblivious, "He bought me a few. He says it's because he's bored of going to bars with a man who can barely dress himself. Personally…" He throws the shirt onto her bed, next to his jacket, "I think it makes me look like a stripper." 

"Well…" 

"You agree?" 

"Less the shirt, more the…" She gestures vaguely at him, at all of him, trying to find the right words, "You know there's other ways to remove a shirt, right? You don't need to rip it off like you're an extra in Magic Mike?" 

"But this way is _far_ more exciting, you have to admit." 

She shakes her head at him, defeated. "Come on," she walks past him, trying to ignore how very close-and-shirtless he is, and opens the door to her bedroom, "Let me show you where the towels are." 

"Lead the way, m'lady." 

She shakes her head as she leads him from the room, still feeling distracted and flustered. She's hoping her cheeks aren't as red as they feel, keen for him to not realise this new and unsettling effect he's having on her. She's so wrapped up in her thoughts that she doesn't even notice Sansa standing on the landing, her arms folded, a single eyebrow raised, until she nearly walks into her. Arya stands next to her, leaning on the railing, watching Brienne with apparent interest. 

_Shit._

Jaime barely reacts. He nods at them – "Ladies." – and sidles past into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Before Brienne can get a word out, Sansa is on her. 

"Are you going to tell us why Jaime Lannister just came out of your bedroom without a shirt on, Brienne?" 

"I'm not… it's not what you think." 

"You're blushing." Arya's tone is balanced, but her eyes are sparkling as she tucks a loose strand of her newly-pastel pink hair behind one ear. 

"Is this why you didn't want to come out? Did you have…" Sansa glances towards the closed bathroom door, "…Other plans?" 

"No! It's not…" Brienne sighs, aware that there's a good chance Jaime can hear everything they're saying through the door. "Kitchen?" 

The Stark sisters give each other a knowing look and Brienne moves past them, heading downstairs, Sansa on her heels. 

"I thought you were… out." She says over her shoulder. 

"We _were_ ,” responds Sansa, cooly, “but Arya left her ID here and no one will serve her, so we had to come back." 

"Oh." 

"I thought _you_ were having, what was it you said… a _chilled night in_?" 

"I was!" Brienne flicks the kitchen light switch perhaps a little more forcefully than she intends to and grabs a beer from the fridge, "Really, I was. He invited himself over." 

She pulls the garish _Welcome to Meereen_ bottle-opener from the top drawer, opens her beer and takes a deep swig. 

"He invited himself over?" 

"He wanted to use the bath!" 

Sansa snorts. 

"He _what_?" Arya's sudden appearance in the doorway makes Brienne jump. 

"Gods, Arya! What's wrong with that? He's staying in Tyrion's flat and there's only a shower and he asked if he could come use the bath and seeing as you two were out, I said yes!" 

Sansa and Arya share another infuriating look. 

" _What_?!" 

"It's a bit weird.” says Sansa. 

"Bit weird, yeah." Her sister agrees. 

"It's not like he's _staying_ or anything!" It comes out forcefully – Brienne can't hold back that inner bitterness now Jaime's out of earshot. 

Sansa frowns at that. "He's not?" 

"No! He's…" She sighs, trying to reign in her disappointment. "He's…going out afterwards. He's got a _hot date._ " She punctuates her final words with air quotes. 

Arya's face turns steely. Brienne recognises the expression; it's the one she tends to wear just before she hit someone. 

"A _what?_ " She demands. 

"A date." 

"With _who_?" 

Brienne shrugs. "I don't know. I didn't ask." 

"So he shows up, borrows your bath, and then…goes off with someone else?" 

"I…yeah. I guess." 

“You're not mad with him?” Says Sansa, her expression of amusement now replaced with one of concern. 

“Well, no, but… it's just it's been a while since I've seen him, and I thought we might hang out or something. Not just… have him steal my bath then go off on some… date.” 

Sansa raises her eyebrows. “Exactly how long _has_ it been since you last saw him?” 

“Ah… well… I guess…" Brienne knows this is not going to help her case. "... A week? Maybe two?” 

“You're aware that's not really that long, right?” Says Arya, smugly. 

Brienne groans. “I know, I know, but we used to see each other every day, and…” 

She spots at her housemates’ faces and trails off. She's fighting a losing battle. 

“You fancy him.” Says Sansa, evenly, cooly – like she hadn’t just suggested the unthinkable. 

“What? No!" Brienne splutters, "He's just my _friend_ , I don't feel that way about him…” 

“So you don't fancy him at all?” 

“No!" 

“You've never even _considered_ it?” 

“I… no!” 

“You're lying.” Arya stares her down, eyebrows raised. 

“I'm…." Brienne begins, but Arya is staring at her, gaze fixed. She relents. There's no use arguing; certainly not with Arya. "I hate it when you do that.” 

“Even _I_ can tell you're lying, Brienne,” says Sansa, rolling her eyes, "to yourself, if not to us. Look," she glances at her watch, "we've got to go." 

"And as much as I'd _love_ to hang around while you pine after Lannister," says Arya, heading out of the kitchen and towards the door, "there's a bottle of Essos tequila at Yggy's bar with my name on it." 

"I'm not _pining_!" 

"You keep telling yourself that. Later, Bri!" 

The Starks gone, Brienne makes her way into the living room and throws herself down onto the sofa, careful not to spill her beer. They’re right; of course they are. She just doesn’t want to admit it. From upstairs, she can still hear the sound of the tap running as Jaime prepares his bath. 

Brienne knows she's been trying hard - too hard, really - to pretend her feelings for Jaime are just friendship, just the result of time and proximity. But if Sansa and Arya can tell, then gods: she needs to be careful. Jaime _can't_ know. She sighs. There's nothing to be done about it now. He'll be in and out of her house in less than two hours, out on his hot date with some unspeakably attractive woman, and Brienne will… 

Well, she'll probably order takeout and mope, if she's honest with herself, but she feels she deserves it. She deserves a day of moping, of taking stock of her feelings and being honest with herself, before deciding what her next steps should be to force herself to get over her ridiculous crush. 

She takes another swig of the beer, and switches on the TV. _Shit_. 

~ 

The credits of the movie roll across the screen, and Brienne is struck with the sudden realisation that Jaime still hasn't’ emerged from the bathroom. She knows he likes to _luxuriate_ , but this is getting obscene. Chucking the empty beer bottle in the recycling box as she passes the kitchen, she stomps up the stairs. 

It’s oddly quiet in the direction of the bathroom, and she wonders for a moment if he’s gone and drowned. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’s suffered from a bath-related accident. Feeling a little awkward, she pauses outside the bathroom door and listens. 

More silence. 

“Jaime?” 

There’s a splash. At least he’s not drowned. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been in there ages, Jaime. Everything alright?” 

“Fine!” 

“Well, don’t spend all night in there. Other people have to use the bathroom, you know…” 

She hears another splash. “You’ve got two bathrooms, you know,” comes the reply. 

Brienne rolls her eyes. “And _you’ve_ got a bathroom at home.” 

“Urgh. Fine. Fine!” 

She hears the bath begin to drain, and then the sound of Jaime stomping around, far more loudly than is strictly necessary. She’s about to head back towards her room, when she hears his voice calling from behind the door again. 

“Brienne, where did you get that conditioner?” 

“What?” 

“The conditioner in the blue bottle! It’s amazing, my hair feels _great_!” 

Brienne frowns. She doesn't even _use_ conditioner, buying the same off-brand yet reliable two-in-one mix that she's been using since moving out of her father’s house _years_ ago. Sansa, who's fastidious about her hair, keeps her baffling array of products upstairs in the other bathroom. Which means… 

_Shit._

“Jaime,” she shouts through the door, “That's Arya’s!” 

“So what?” 

“So it’s full of pink dye, is what!” 

There's a moment of prolonged, horrible silence, and then the door bursts open, revealing Jaime wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and another wrapped around his head. 

“It’s _what?!_ ” 

Brienne bursts out laughing - she can't help it, the sight of him standing there with his hair tucked beneath a towel in that clever twist that she’s never been able to perfect. He has also, she notes, appears to have chosen the _smallest_ available towel to cover himself. She'd been expecting him to find the hamper and choose one of the extra-large bath towels which she tends to favour herself, but apparently he's had other ideas. 

“Stop laughing!” He's starting to look genuinely distressed, so she grabs his arm, trying not to focus on how warm and soft and slightly damp his skin is, and guides him back into her room. She pulls open her wardrobe, revealing the floor-length mirror on the inside of the door, and manoeuvres him in front of it. 

“Let’s have a look before we panic, alright?” 

She gently unwraps the towel from his head, holding her breath. His hair falls down; wet, long, and… 

Jaime groans. 

“Maybe it’ll look better once we’ve dried it?” She says, a little desperately. "Sit down, I'll grab the hair dryer." 

Jaime sits himself at her desk while she kneels down and pulls out the drawer under her bed, rummaging for her hairdryer. She rarely uses it: her hair is short enough that it’s usually easier to just let it dry on its own, but it's useful on busy mornings. She pulls it out with a flourish, triumphant, and plugs it in. 

"Right," she says, aiming the dryer at his hair, "Let's see how bad this really is." 

She begins to dry, moving his hair around with her free hand. It’s a beautiful dye job, she has to admit; the pink bright and even across his head. 

"How did you _manage_ this, Jaime? Did you not wonder why it was pink?" 

"I just thought it was supposed to be fruity or something!" 

"The amazing thing is how _even_ it is," she says, combing through his hair with her fingers, "and the colour is really consistent." She laughs at his distressed expression. "Even when you're ruining your hair you manage to do it perfectly!” 

"Oh, good, that's very reassuring." 

"I'm amazed it took so well. How long did you have it on for?" 

Jaime mutters something, barely intelligible. She takes a step away from him and folds her arms. 

"Jaime?" 

He slouches like a grouchy teenager. "I have a _routine_." He says, as if that answers her question. 

"…Go on?" 

"I wash my hair first. Then I condition it. And then I just… you know, _bathe_. I wash the conditioner out last, before I get out the bath." 

She frowns at him. "You were in there for _an hour and a half_. You must have had that on your hair for…" 

"For an hour and fifteen minutes." He says, distraught, "Yeah." 

Brienne tries and fails to stifle a laugh. "Oh _Gods_ , Jaime." 

“ _Shut up_.” 

She rolls her eyes and turns the hair dryer off, satisfied that his hair is dry enough to properly assess the damage. 

"It really isn't all that bad." 

"It isn't that… have you _seen_ it, Brienne? Gods, a Lannister shouldn't have pink hair. What will my sister say?" 

Brienne can feel herself bristling at the mention of Cersei. "Does she need to know?" She asks, coolly. 

"Well, _no_ , but…" 

"But what?" 

He shakes his head, looking defeated, and she grabs his shoulder and spins him around on the desk chair to face her. She keeps her hand there, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in her stomach. He looks up at her, and it’s like the sparkle from his eyes has gone out. He just looks… sad. Not the overdramatic distress of mere minutes ago, typical of the way he handles all his emotions, but like something inside him has just… given up. 

"What would my _father_ have said?" He murmurs, breaking her stare and letting his eyes fall to the floor. 

And then, suddenly, she's angry – red-hot angry, angry for Jaime, for the wasted years trying to appease his father. Angry for the man in front of her who is still, after all these years, just a little boy trying to grasp onto affection, onto _acceptance_. 

" _Fuck_ your father." It slips out. She realises what she's said as soon as she says it, the hand on Jaime's shoulder flying up against her mouth, as if that will retroactively stop the words. He stares at her, astonished. 

"Shit, Jaime, I-" 

He bursts out laughing. The look in his eyes – the fear – vanishes. 

" _Brienne_!" 

"Sorry! It just… it just slipped out!" 

"Gods, you're right, though," He said, his shoulders shaking, " _As usual_." 

He rises from the chair, one hand gripping onto the towel to stop it slipping from his waist, and looks back in the mirror. 

"Oh, Gods. It's _so_ pink. What am I going to _do_?" 

Brienne peers over his shoulder. "I'd say it's more…rose gold. Very fashionable." 

"Rose gold is _still_ pink, Brienne." 

"Well, _yes_ ," she concedes, "But this way it looks almost like you did it on purpose." 

He holds his face in his hands and makes a muffled sobbing sound. 

“Look, it's not the end of the world, Jaime. We could strip the colour, or bleach it, or dye over it…It's not that late, we can go into town and grab some bits and try to fix it this evening?” 

Jaime moans. “But the table's booked for...” he turns to look at the clock on her wall, “an hour and a half from now!” 

“Oh, right.” The hot date. She tries not to look sour. “Well, we can do it first thing tomorrow morning...” A sudden thought strikes her. “...Unless you get lucky this evening, that is,” she adds, focusing on his hair and trying to sound casually cool, “in that case, we can fix it tomorrow afternoon.” 

There's a brief pause, then he says, very slowly, “Do you… think I’ll get lucky?” 

Brienne doesn't miss the sudden shift in his tone – clearly the thought hasn't occurred to him. That alone is absurd, of course; he's _Jaime fucking Lannister_. Of course he'll get lucky. But she doesn't need to further feed his ego. 

She looks at him in the mirror over his shoulder and shrugs. “You might. If you're _very_ lucky. And on your best behaviour." 

He frowns, and she catches the miniscule gesture in his reflection in the mirror. He looks confused, like she's suggested something obscene or ridiculous. 

“Well, then…” He finally says, now back to his smooth confidence, catching her eye in the glass, “I’ll have to make sure I _am_ on my best behaviour. It's a good job I'm wearing my lucky pants." 

She raises her eyebrows at him. "You're not wearing _any_ pants, Jaime." 

He looks down at himself, as if just realising how naked he is – how naked he would be if not for the towel, then back up at her. "You make a valid point. Ah…" 

"What?" 

"This is really weird, isn’t it?" He says, eyes narrowing. 

_Yes. It’s so weird. You’re naked in my fucking bedroom and all I can think is_ \- 

“No,” lies Brienne, feeling her cheeks reddening. He stares at her. “Okay. Maybe?” She winces, trying not to offend him. 

“I should probably, ah…” 

He walks towards her bed, where his shirt has now been neatly folded, and grabs it in his good hand. The other is still gripped around the towel. He gives her a strangely nervous, lopsided grin. 

“Right,” he says, “I’ll just… go get changed.” 

“Right.” 

And then he’s gone, headed, she assumes, back into the bathroom to get dressed. He’s acting jumpy, as if there’s a sudden barrier between them. It’s strange, seeing him act like this, like he’s _unsure._ It’s because of his date, Brienne tells herself. Jaime hasn't been on a date in – well – he hasn't been on a date the whole time she's known him, apart from that disaster with Pia, which he'd quickly decided _didn't count_. No wonder he’s feeling nervous, anyone would, especially someone with such an…intense romantic history. 

Trying not to let herself linger on Jaime’s love life too much, she sprawls herself across her bed and picks up her phone, vaguely scrolling through twitter and liking the photos that Sansa has posted of her and Arya in a bar with a pair of colourful, sweet-looking cocktails. She's halfway through an article about the political tensions in King's Landing when there's a tentative knock at the door. Brienne looks up from her phone. “... Yes?” 

“Can I come in?” 

She places her phone down on the bedside table and sits up. This is… unusual. Jaime never _knocks_ : he prefers to barge in and, if necessary, get yelled at. “Uh...Yes?” 

He finally opens the door and wonders in, looking decidedly more relaxed now he's wearing more than just a towel. More than relaxed: he looks _good_. He's brushed his hair, and the pink strands flop across his face stylishly, framing his jaw. The pink _works_ \- it makes him look even more striking. Brienne feels just a little bitter. Had she accidentally used Arya's conditioner, she'd come away looking like a tomato. Jaime looks at her, critically. 

“Aren’t you getting changed?” 

Brienne glances down at her old, ripped leggings and oversized T-Shirt with confusion. “I wasn’t planning to, no. Um...why?” 

He looks aghast. “You’re wearing _that_?” 

She frowns at him. “...yes?” She's aware of a kind of dissonance in their conversation – a void somewhere between his words and hers. 

“For this evening?” 

“...this evening where I plan to watch old sitcoms and eat Dornish take-out?” 

“Very funny, Brienne, but we’ve got…” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time, “...fifty minutes before we need to leave! Less, if we can’t get a taxi…” 

“ _We_?” She repeats, standing up, “What do you mean, _we_? I’m not tagging along with you on your _hot date,_ Lannister, no matter how distressed you are about your hair.” 

He stares at her, then his eyes widen in apparent horror. “Oh, seven hells….” 

“What?” 

“Ah...I…” 

“Jaime, what’s going on?” 

“I meant...this evening...the hot date is _you_ , Brienne!” 

" _What?!"_

“You said I owed you dinner!” 

“I meant, like, a pizza or something, Jaime!” 

“Oh, gods…” 

“You said you had a _date_!” 

“I was joking! I thought it was obvious that I meant I was taking _you_ out because I owed you!” 

"Taking me out on a _hot date?_ " 

"I don’t know, I just said it! I didn't…Oh, gods, Brienne!" 

A sudden, awful thought strikes Brienne like a truck. “So when I said about… about getting lucky…” 

“ _Yes!_ ” 

Brienne feels her face flush, hotly pink, and she buries her head in her hands. “Oh no…” She moans, the sound smothered under her fingers. 

She sits with her head in her hands on the edge of her bed. But…what had he said? _I'll have to be on my best behaviour_. 

She sits up, suddenly, standing up, striding forwards. 

"I'll have to be on my best behaviour?" She says, repeating his words, voice rising, " _Lucky pants?!_ " 

"What are you-" 

"You thought I was coming onto you!" Her voice rises, and suddenly she's on the verge of yelling, "And you _let me_!" 

"I didn’t _let_ you do anything!" 

"Why didn't you tell me to… to fuck off or something?" 

"What?" 

"You said… you implied… you… you…" She can feel herself shaking, her face and neck flushed with embarrassment, with anger. He thought she was hitting on him. More than that: he thought she was throwing herself at him, thought she was suggesting that they might… that they could… 

She can't even bring herself to _think_ about that. It's ridiculous. It's never going to happen. Whatever her feelings towards Jaime – whatever feelings she's trying very, very hard to quash – it isn't going to happen. _Ever_. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"Say _what_?" He's getting frustrated too, running his hands through his pink, perfect hair. 

"You said…" She takes a deep breath in an attempt to control her breathing, "You said that you'd… you'd be wearing your _lucky pants_ ," she shakes her head, unable to believe the words coming out of her own mouth, "You… flirted with me!" 

"Well… yeah!" 

"Why?" 

"Because you were coming on to me!" 

She can't even respond to that, her mouth opening and closing silently in shock. 

"Brienne," He says, "Why do you _think_ I said that? Pretend, for a moment, you aren't insane…" she glares at him, "and imagine someone has just said, in not so many words, 'play your cards right and later I might just have sex with you'. What would _you_ do?" 

She flounders for a moment. "I don't… I mean, no one has _ever_ said something like that to me!" 

"But if they _did_." 

"But they _never_ would!" 

"Well _I_ just did!" 

His words hang there, between them. 

"…Go wait outside." 

"…what?" 

"Just… I need ten minutes, okay?" 

He looks at her – that hurt, eyes-wide look – but he does what she says, closing the door behind him. As soon as the latch _clicks_ shut, she finally lets out the breath that's been trying to escape and lets herself fall back onto the bed. 

~ 

Jaime leans against the banister outside Brienne’s room, rubbing his face with his good hand. He’d considered, for a brief moment, texting Tyrion and begging for help - but his brother would have only laughed at him. The crushing embarrassment about his ruined hair is pushed down: it suddenly feels unimportant. He silently curses himself for being so vain. Jaime knows he should probably go downstairs and wait for her to call him back up, or text him telling him to leave and never come back, but he can’t bring himself to abandon the spot outside her bedroom. He knows what she’s like - knows more than she does, he suspects - and is fully aware that in such a fraught emotional situation she may well just shut down. If she does, he’ll still be here. 

They need to talk about this. 

He sighs into his hand. _Fuck_. He’d been so wrapped up in the idea that Brienne - the unimaginable Brienne - was hitting on him, that he hadn’t paused to consider that she was just being nice. She was right: he hadn’t told her that _she_ was his date. There was no way for her to know. He too had done what he always did in these situations: tried to be vague to hide what he was really feeling while blindly hoping that everyone else would know what he meant. 

But, _gods_ , she was going to be pissed at him. He’d been so blatant - more blatant than he’d ever risked being before. Although, in his defence, she’d started it. 

Or at least, he _thought_ she’d started it. 

There’s no going back from this. Brienne doesn’t think about him in that way. She never has, never will. As far as she’s concerned, Jaime is her friend, and nothing else. And he’s ruined it all by making it obvious that, given the chance, he’ll leap at the opportunity to make it something more. She’ll never feel comfortable around him again. 

Jaime doesn’t really want to contemplate this new reality where Brienne will no longer be a permanent fixture. He values her too much - he’d moved to the North for her, damn it, although he’ll never tell her that in his life. But if she comes out of her room - whether it’s in ten minutes or in three hours - and tells him to fuck off, to never speak to her again… he will. Of course he will. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He reaches for his phone. He could just text her. He could text her, and apologise: extend the olive branch and hope she doesn’t just set it on fire. He’s fiddling with the phone, trying to find the right words to say _sorry I hit on you and made things weird_ , when there’s a quiet click. 

Brienne’s door opens, slowly. Cautiously. His head snaps up. 

She peers at him through the crack of the door and then, still moving slowly, pushes it open. 

Jaime tries very hard not to gasp, although he’s sure his face is making his feelings _abundantly_ clear. She’s wearing a sapphire blue jumpsuit, with wide legs and a sort of high-waisted halterneck, the collar sitting snugly around her neck. The thick straps of fabric reveal a stretch of pale skin between her breasts - and then, with horror, he realises he’s blushing at the sudden and unbidden thought of her breasts. She’s got a coat gripped in her white-knuckled hands. 

Brienne spots his expression and now _she’s_ blushing too. 

“I, ah…” she says, clearly unsure, “is this okay? I don’t really have anything else, and Sansa said…” 

“It’s perfect.” He cuts her off without even thinking. She blinks at him. “It’s… it’s great, yeah. Really… nice. Better than nice!” Fuck. He sounds like a stupid teenage boy talking to a crush for the first time. 

If anything, Brienne’s blush deepens. Clearly his childish rambling hasn’t put her off. “Thanks,” she says, quietly. 

“Blue suits you,” says Jaime, trying to regain a little dignity. “It brings out the colour of your eyes.” 

It sounds trite, but it’s true: her eyes are dazzling. She smiles, a little nervously. Jaime suddenly becomes very aware that he’s staring at her: that they’re staring at each other. 

“So…” she says, finally. “Where are we going?” 

Jaime frowns, then suddenly remembers. “Shit!” He says, scrabbling for his phone, “the reservation…” he looks at the time, relieved to have something else to focus on that isn’t Brienne’s broad, bare shoulders, “we should have time, if we go right away…” 

“Well, then,” says Brienne, “we should go.” And with that, she heads downstairs. 

She smiles as she moves past, brushing ever so slightly against him. He can’t help but watch her as she goes. 

“Are you coming or not?” She calls up to him, once she reaches the bottom step. 

“With pleasure!” He virtually throws himself down the stairs, skipping down them two at a time. 

Brienne is waiting for him by the front door, her coat tied tight around her waist. She pulls open the door as he approaches. 

“I warn you, Lannister,” she says, “this is not a _hot date_. Barely even _luke warm_. I'm only doing this because I feel bad about your hair.” 

He grins at the teasing lie. “Got it.” 

And together, they head out into the cold Northern night air. 


End file.
